In the forgotten village of Snowbrook, where crumbling cottages sink into snowy drifts, elderly Elizabeth and Peter spent their days in solitude. Their children had long left the family home, swept up in city life. Their daughter, Emily, visited occasionally in summer with her granddaughter, but their son, William, hadn’t set foot in Snowbrook for seven years. Two marriages, global travels, a thriving business—his life was a whirlwind, yet there was no room for his parents.
One day, William called unexpectedly, announcing he’d visit after New Year’s. Peter wasted no time, trudging to the nearest town for groceries, while Elizabeth cooked with all the love she could muster. They waited for their son like spring after a bitter winter, dreaming of warm conversations and a helping hand.
William arrived in a gleaming black SUV, as if from another world. He devoured his mother’s pies without a word of thanks and collapsed into bed. His parents tiptoed around, whispering in their own home like ghosts.
“Let him rest,” Elizabeth murmured. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk, and he’ll help with the chores.”
“Firewood needs chopping, the fence could use mending,” Peter added. “I can’t manage it alone.”
The next morning, William slept in, barely stirring for breakfast. The couple stoked the fire to keep him warm, too hesitant to disturb him. Gathering her courage, Elizabeth asked, “Will, love, could you give your father a hand?”
“I came here to relax, not work,” he scoffed, barely glancing up. “How about heating the sauna, eh?”
Shoulders sagging, they fetched buckets and set to work, humoring their son’s whim. Later, Peter ventured, “Son, the shed could use tidying. Good stretch for you.”
“I didn’t come to shovel muck!” William snapped, his words like ice on bare skin.
At dinner, he boasted about his penthouse, smart gadgets, and pedigree dog. He moaned about his wife and colleagues but never asked how his parents fared in their worn-out cottage. After downing a bottle of fine whisky, he grew rowdy, demanding the car keys to visit Emily. Trembling, Elizabeth hid them, fearing he’d drive drunk. She wept all night, her heart shattered.
By morning, William acted as if nothing happened. While his mother packed tins of homemade preserves and cakes, he wandered the snowy woods, breathing deeply. Spotting the parcels, he shrugged. “Blimey, all this. I’ll bring gifts next time—forgot this round.”
“Don’t bother coming back,” Elizabeth whispered, tears tracing her wrinkled cheeks.
William didn’t even flinch. He climbed into his flashy Jeep and sped toward the city, leaving nothing but tire tracks and hollow hearts behind. Elizabeth and Peter watched in silence, knowing their son had become a stranger long ago.
Time slips away while we chase glittering things—yet the truest warmth waits in quiet corners, often unnoticed until it’s gone.